Helping Hand
by Lukeprism
Summary: Lucas had to remember—he was no longer that boy.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: A de-rusting exercise that turned into a series of sorts. The twins are my muse, I guess. Originally posted on tumblr.**_

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He was tired.

Sleep never seemed to come easily to him, and even when it did it was fleeting and scarce and brought bad thoughts into an already muddled psyche. His nights consisted of an endless cycle of tossing and turning beneath the sheets, willing his mind to just please stop functioning for a few hours so he could just_be_ for a moment without all the guilt and worry and pent-up frustration.

But even that thought made him feel guilty. Who was he to ask for such a thing when he knew there was another in the same position, probably even worse so than his, who put up with the stigma every single day without fail? So he would forget that part, and find himself content with his insomnia for another day or two. He didn't have it so bad.

When he got up in the morning—waiting until the sun had risen from its place below the horizon had become nothing more than a formality in the household now—he always found him right beside the kitchen table, hovering next to a chair, the same one every time. Without fail he would be there. It wasn't until Lucas made his presence known to the red-haired boy that he turned around, locked eyes with the blonde, and slowly, mechanically, made a move to sit down.

It was up to Lucas to make breakfast every morning, so he did just that. Gathering utensils, breaking eggs, pan-frying bacon, all in the empty silence of the red-haired boy's presence. It usually wasn't until the meal was well underway that any sort of conversation was had…and that was a term used loosely.

"'Morning."

The red-haired boy had grown used to this phrase and how to properly respond. "Good morning."

"Did you have a good night?" Asking others about sleep directly made him woozy.

"It was fine." That was all he ever responded with. "And yours was fine too, I assume." They were both guilty of it.

He had grown hardened to the harsh sound of such a familiar voice speaking in such an inhuman manner. "Yes, mine was fine." He never liked to linger on the fact that nine out of ten times their communications resulted in thinly-veiled lies. "Thank you."

It was hard to believe that it had only been a dozen or so days since the world had reset. Porky was gone—for now, at least—the Pigmasks had disbanded and most of the chimeras, if not disappeared, had found a place somewhere to live more or less peacefully. Lucas found that most everyone in Tazmily had either forgotten about all that had happened in the past three years or refused to acknowledge the fact that it had ever happened. That was fine and all, until Lucas realized that he had no one to talk to about it, and all the misgivings and regret went unsaid, never leaving his immediate consciousness.

The front door of the house squealed as it was thrown open to make way for Lucas' father, sweaty from his morning sheep rounds and no doubt hungry as well. He was speechless for the most part as well, completing the trifecta of silent males perfectly. He made a point to greet him, at least. "G'morning, Lucas." The hesitation at the end was almost intentional.

"'Morning, dad," the blonde greets right back. "Scrambled, or omelets?"

"Scrambled."

So he continued to cook. He heard the gritty screech of the chair on the wooden floor as Flint sat himself down at the table—almost certainly the one furthest away from the redhead, at the edge of the table. Flint had a harder time than Lucas coming to terms with his presence and what it meant, and with how little they had dared communicate with one another—not at all—it was hard to see them in the same vicinity.

When the eggs were sufficiently scrambled and the bacon cooked through, Lucas went about serving the food. Flint's portion was the biggest, followed by Lucas' own plate. The red-haired boy's was the smallest, by request. He assured that he required little sustenance on a daily basis and insisted that they didn't_waste_ food on him.

They ate in silence, save for the quiet scrapes of forks on plates and soft chewing movements. Flint all but shoveled food into his mouth, discomfort evident in the way his movements were strained and fast. The red-haired boy was, on the opposite end of the spectrum, very slow and deliberate in his approach, savoring every bite like it was his last. He made eye contact with no one, simply staring at a space on the table like it had mesmerized him.

Lucas watched on with a detached sense of sadness. The first night had been borderline unbearable; despite all they had been through, _together_ no less, there was such a physical and emotional disconnect that it made Lucas want to cry. It had gotten better, for lack of a more accurate word. There was no longer a debilitating, festering awkward silence to contend with, but rather the emptiness of a company lost to the unpredictability of past catastrophe.

As much as it pained him to think it, the blonde knew that the red-haired boy's presence that was primarily responsible for it—all of it. Lucas' restless mind, Flint's emotional distance, the town's hesitation to associate with them. It was just so unfair. The only thing the red-haired boy had done was survive; that was his only action, and only fault. He knew everything. He knew Lucas, he knew Flint, he knew the town, he knew Hinawa, he knew Claus. He could not, however, identify with any of it. He was no longer the boy they had searched for all those years, and in the same way no longer the puppet that had made his life a literal hell. He was his own being—in the making.

He was so _tired_. All Lucas wanted to do was curl up into himself and think about nothing and worry about nothing and remember nothing. But he knew that he could not abandon this boy, whom had done nothing to deserve his fate, just because he wasn't feeling up to snuff.

He would help him, and perhaps in the process he would help himself, too.

**—e—n—d—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**


	2. Chapter 2

**—s—t—a—r—t—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**

"You know, it's okay to talk to me."

They sat now on the couch where the red-haired boy lay himself during the night. Lucas had taken it upon himself to sit there beside him after dinner had concluded, tired of the silence between the three of them. They were all to blame, surely, but Lucas more so; he knew that he was the most willing of the three to discuss anything with anyone, and that itself was an extreme overstatement. He supposed an actual conversation would be a step in the right direction.

The red-haired boy did not respond to him verbally; rather, he turned to face the other boy—the only boy, really—with a face as blank as ever. "I understand."

"About anything."

"I won't hesitate to discuss anything of importance."

Lucas was silent for a moment, watching the ex-commander's red eyes stare evenly right back into his own. "It doesn't have to be important," he insisted, voice rather quiet. He had to understand, the red-haired boy's way of thinking was different than his own. Wrong? No…just different. "You can say anything that comes to mind. Even if it's just a simple 'I'm sad.' I'd be happy to listen."

The chimera next to him did not respond for a while. Lucas began to fear he had only succeeded in making things worse. _I shouldn't be pushing him like this, I'm being too forward, who knows how he'll react if I go over the line—_

"Are you referring to…'feelings?'" The word came out of his mouth like it was a foreign concept to him—and it was.

Carefully considering the red-haired boy's countenance, Lucas nodded minutely. "Yes. But if that's no good…or if you're uncomfortable telling me about it, you don't have to."

More silence followed, though this time it didn't feel as vacant; the redhead's gaze had shifted from staring blankly ahead to the ground in front of him, like he was processing something internally. "It is not so much a matter of being 'uncomfortable' as it is that I do not have those sorts of sensations."

Lucas, who had up until this point been watching him through his peripheral vision, now stared at him directly, with a look of mild disbelief. "Do you…mean that you don't have feelings?"

"Not that I am aware of."

Perhaps it was the way the red-haired boy had phrased his response that set him off, but he didn't believe that for a moment. "That can't be true. They were just repress—" he cut himself off; he had to remember that this boy was not that boy. "…they're just…you don't know what they…" _..feel like?_ "You haven't…tried to feel them."

The red-haired boy met Lucas' gaze half-way. "The definition of the term 'feelings' in my internal database describes them as emotional reactions. That seems to imply that I would have no choice in whether or not I 'felt' them."

Lucas was taken aback; for one thing, that was the most amount of talking the red-haired boy had ever done in one go—and he had done it to contradict him. Not blindly listening and taking everything word for word… There was hope for this boy yet.

"…you're right." He had been thinking about it all the wrong way. "A feeling is like a belief, or an opinion, and it's something that's exclusive to you. No one else can tell you what they are or how to feel them. It's something you figure out for yourself." He was thinking out loud at this point but he couldn't bring himself to stop—he'd just had the most beautiful thought. "And in order to form opinions or beliefs, you need experience. You gotta get up and do something, something you've never done before."

Before he was aware of it himself the blonde was standing up, looking down at the jacket-clad boy who now gave him his undivided attention. "You have to go and look at all the things the world has to offer, good and bad. You have to take it all and make you you."

The moments that followed were quiet, so much so that Lucas could only hear the heightened pace of his own heartbeat. For him, who had seen and done most everything in the previous incarnation of the world, it was all so clear. Now there was a new, albeit similar, world all around them and everyone would have the chance to experience it for themselves. Including the redhead.

"But you don't have to do it alone," he whispered. His mind flitted to those unbearable days, long since passed, that he had been left alone to wallow in his own despair and guilt. "No one should have to do it alone."

For a moment, Lucas could have sword he saw a change of expression on the red-haired boy's face—_some kind of emotion?_—but as soon as it was there it was gone, and he was standing up to face Lucas squarely. There was something vaguely familiar about his stance; shoulders not as tense as usual, head held mere fractions higher…but, he _had_ to remember, he was not that boy.

"I believe I understand. What do you propose we begin with?"

**—e—n—d—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**


	3. Chapter 3

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The sudden sensation of liquid on skin in the darkness was always scary to him, whether he expected it or not.

Lucas trembled slightly where he stood on the ocean's edge. Shoes and socks abandoned behind him, he had stepped into the dark waters voluntarily alongside the red-haired boy, who had agreed to accompany him here. Currently said boy mirrored his actions, slipping his boots off gingerly before stepping rather casually into the tide. He did not so much as flinch when he came into contact with the water, instead slowly sloshing up to Lucas' side without a word.

It was rather silly, he supposed. Water wasn't exactly the most common fear in the world. Try as he might to convince himself he was at peace, thoughts of being tossed around mercilessly by the river current that night long ago pervaded his mind. Memories of being forced to engage in liplocking with the mermen under the sea prior to their arrival at Tanetane did nothing to help his state of mind. Cold water had never been a good experience for him.

The presence at his side had been nearly forgotten. "Are you feeling well?"

Lucas blinked away the apparitions in his eyes. "Yes, I'm fine."

After a moment of silence Lucas glanced over to gauge the red-haired boy's condition, face close enough to be seen in the dimness of their surroundings. Instead of the blank canvas he'd expected, the blonde saw eyebrows pulled a tad forward, eyes trained on something far beyond his sight. "I…" He seemed to decide against his next words.

"What?" Lucas could hardly believe it; he was already showing signs, however small they may have been, of humanity. Perhaps they had always been there, and it was only now that anyone took the time to notice them. "I told you, anything you want to say you can say."

The look on the red-haired boy's face showed he still had his doubts. "It is just…you say that you want me to relay any and all feelings to you posthaste, but when it comes to the matter of me asking the same of you, you resist," he noted, voice calm. "I can understand the root of this distrust, but—"

"No," the blond interjected quickly, horrified. He was right; Lucas was nothing more than a self-righteous hypocrite, expecting trust without giving any in return. "You're right. I'm sorry."

The red-head turned his head to look at him. "The same provisions extend to you, as well."

"…hm?"

"If you do not want to talk, I understand."

Lucas found himself feeling happy. A part of him shook its head and reprimanded him for it—this was not that boy, not anymore!—but another, bigger part understood that and was happy all the same. Even if he only said that because it was expected of him, he was learning. "I don't want to, not particularly," he admitted, "but I think you deserve to know."

So he told him of his fears, of his misgivings and vaguely of his brother's—that boy that he wasn't—part in it. Told him more than he'd told anyone before. Though the memories haunted him still, it was refreshing to get it off of his chest for once.

"That is troubling," was his response to Lucas' tale. He stared ahead a moment more before turning towards the blonde. "Perhaps we should leave then?"

Lucas shook his head. "No, it's alright." He paused a few moments before going on. "It isn't healthy to avoid the things you fear forever. You have to learn to cope."

They were both silent then, for a while. The moon had risen in the time since they had arrived, and the black waves reflected its light in glossy ovals as they rose and fell. A slight breeze flitted across Lucas' skin, making the hairs on his arm stand on end.

"What if," the red-haired boy said, voice unusually quiet, "you are afraid of being alone?"

When Lucas turned to look at him, eyes wide, he stared back, emotionless mask betrayed by a sort of bareness in his crimson gaze. He had bared himself just as Lucas had.

"…then you surround yourself with people. People who care."

_What if there are none of those?_ He could hear the question clearly in his mind, and it upset him. _There are some of those, _he thought._ I am one of those._

"Do you know what you do when you need to clear your head?"

The red-head blinked. "What is that?"

Lucas' response was not one of words; instead, he took the boy by the arm and pulled him as hard as he could forward, along with himself, and they both tumbled head-first unceremoniously into the ocean's cold embrace.

**—e—n—d—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**


End file.
